You’re My Best Friend, Shmuel,’ He Said.

There Will Be Outrage And Disgust And People Will Turn On Me At The Last, They Will Hate Me, My Reputation Will Forever Be Destroyed, My Punishment Earned, Self-inflicted Like This Gunshot Wound, And The World Will Finally Know That I Was The Greatest Feather Man Of Them All.

What Exactly Was The Difference? He Wondered To Himself. And Who Decided Which People Wore The Striped Pajamas And Which People Wore The Uniforms?

The First Thing He Noticed Was How Quiet It Was. This Was Nothing Like The Kind Of Quiet He Heard When He Woke Up In The Middle Of The Night After A Bad Dream. When That Happened, There Were Always Strange, Unidentifiable Sounds Seeping Into His Room From The Tiny Gaps Where The Windowpanes Weren't Sealed Together Correctly. At Those Moments He Could Always Tell There Was Life Outside, Even If All That Life Was Fast Asleep. It Was A Silence That Wasn't Silence At All.

. . .only The Victims And Survivors Can Truly Comprehend The Awfulness Of That Time And Place; The Rest Of Us Live On The Other Side Of The Fence, Staring Through From Our Own Comfortable Place, Trying In Our Own Clumsy Ways To Make Sense Of It All.

I Don't Buy Into The Idea That An Irish Writer Should Write About Ireland, Or A Gay Writer Should Write About Being Gay. But When I Found The Right Story, I Saw It As An Opportunity To Write About Being A Teenager And Being Gay. Most People, Whether You're Gay Or Straight Or Whatever, Have Experienced That Relationship Where One Person Is Much More Interested Than The Other.